I remember so vividly carrying that old shoe box to school. It still smelled of my dad’s leather dress shoes and shoe polish. I carefully covered that box with red construction paper…glueing it down with that gosh awful school paste that smelled earthy and damp. (Admit it…you tasted it at least once, didn’t you?) It was so thick and wet it made the construction paper lump up and curl but I kept pressing it and flattening it with my little girl fingers.

A valentine box was a symbol of pure hope. Wishful thinking. My mom took me to the store and I carefully perused the shelves till I found the perfect box. We made absolutely certain there were enough cards so everyone would get one. Then, I took my No. 2 pencil and the list of my classmate’s names, and carefully wrote “To:” and their name then “From:” and my name…in cursive. Then I put each card in an envelope, sealed it with a little heart sticker and again wrote the person’s name on the front. It took a long time.

When the big day came, we took our little lunch sacks with the valentines in them and dropped them in the appropriate personalized boxes. Some were elaborately decorated with lacy paper doilies and red foil hearts. Others had scribbled flowers and X’s and O’s and “Happy Valentine’s Day” on them. When we were finished distributing our cards, we were invited to take our boxes back to our seats. I will never ever forget that one teacher who actually had us COUNT our valentines out and the child who got the most got a chocolate bar. 

It was the very first time I realized there were differences between us.

Up till then, we were all just classmates. We had little groups and some got chosen and some didn’t but eventually EVERYONE got a chance…didn’t they? Well…apparently not. In that moment, when the pretty little blond girl proudly walked up to get her chocolate bar, 22 pairs of little eyes bore daggers in her back as she waltzed forward. I was inwardly devastated. As much for the others who didn’t get a candy bar as I was for myself. And…I was disillusioned. I had just witnessed unfairness in the world firsthand and it was a bitter pill to swallow.

From then on, I had a Love/Hate relationship with Valentine’s Day. I could not help myself…I counted every one. I was painfully aware my number was lower and I used that as a yardstick to measure where I stood in the social hierarchy. Eventually, I grew up. I embraced the day with a great sense of relief when we no longer made the Valentine Boxes. We no longer “voted for the most popular kid” with little heart-shaped ballots. That was all done in other, ever so much more sophisticated ways as we got older.

I didn’t have enough Valentine’s Days with Hubby #1 to remember and it was so, so long ago. I do remember too many unobserved holidays and events with Hubby #2 because he was too busy to get me something. Those things stung…not because I couldn’t understand why. After all, he was in medical school and residency and practice and he really WAS busy. No, those things stung because of unhealed and unforgiven injuries to my inner little girl and he just added to the pile of hurts. It was simply another thing to discuss and resolve in therapy…small potatoes comparatively.

When Mr. Virgo arrived, he came with the gushy cards and the cakes and candies and always, always flowers….usually a beautiful orchid so it would last longer. He was intuitive and surprisingly skilled at healing my wounded psyche with sweet words on brightly colored paper. I remember a year or so after he died and I was downsizing, I came across a sticky note on which he’d written “Happy Valentine’s Day, Baby Doll!” I still have that somewhere, along with all the gushy cards. When he died, I knew it was the end of the line for the hearts and flowers of Valentine’s Day.

Then…miracle of miracles…along came Mr. FixIt. A man who obviously takes his time in the greeting card aisle, choosing the perfect sentiment. Flowers in hand. A warm hug. A gift from God. My heart soars.

I know how blessed I am. I remember the pain. I remember the devastation of loss. I remember hating the day because it just emphasized what I no longer had. I wanted to slap the happy people. And now, I am keenly aware there are no promises of another tomorrow. However, we do have today. Life is an intricate, delicate dance we practice every day. Sometimes we step on each other’s toes. Other times…we tango.

❤️

“And when you stand praying, if you hold anything against anyone, forgive them, so that your Father in heaven may forgive you your sins.””

mark 11:25 NIV